Squall Line (The Inland Seas Series Book 1)

by Gwyn McNamee

  Keep your eyes on his face, Grace.

  Get to work.

  If I can keep myself occupied with other things and other thoughts, this might not be as awkward. I drop down on the bed where the bandages are laid out and wave him over. “We need to replace those bandages.”

  I need to keep my hands and my mind busy.

  His eyes meet mine, pupils pinpointed and barely focused. He grunts, and he shuffles forward until he’s standing in front of me. Pale pink blood seeps through the wet bandage on his side, and I pull at the tape holding it in place.

  A hand shoots out and grabs my wrist. He squeezes it and shakes his head. “I can do this myself.”

  Ass.

  This man has an attitude unlike anything I’ve ever dealt with before. He’s incapable of admitting he needs help let alone accepting it from me. Agreeing to let me act as lookout must have been agony for him. And now, he stands here weak, high on pain meds, and stitched together, and still can’t admit he can’t do it alone.

  It’s like he’d rather die than just let me help him.

  “Stop trying to be a fucking macho guy and let me help you. You’re about ready to fall over, and we need to get you dried and these re-wrapped before you do.”

  He freezes.

  I wait for the explosion of anger at my words.

  It doesn’t come.

  He slowly releases my hand, his eyes never leaving mine.

  He made the right choice…this time.

  I pry at the tape holding the bandage in place on his side. It sticks to his skin, despite being wet.

  “Fuck!” He grits his teeth.

  I pull at another corner.

  “Shit. That hurts.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “You’re such a fucking pussy.”

  “Pussy?” He raises a dark eyebrow at me. “You think I’m a pussy?”

  Before he released me, I might have been afraid of him after saying something like that, but now, like this…

  Things are so different.

  “You’re complaining about a little tape, so yeah, I do.”

  He shifts slightly, putting his crotch right in front of my face.

  Damn.

  He’s hard.

  And very ready.

  I half-expect him to tell me he’s going to prove he doesn’t have a pussy, but I rip off the last piece of tape and expose the stitches Preacher just put in.

  Warwick’s jaw tics where it’s clenched, and I drag my eyes away from his face and to his wound.

  The stitches still look good, but I do need to make sure they’re dry before I redress them, which means I need him to take off the towel.

  I chew my bottom lip.

  How does one ask that when the man in question has something very private barely contained under it?

  He reaches down and tugs at the knot of the towel at his waist, directly below where the word LOYALTY is inked across his skin. It falls away and exposes his full body—hard muscle, tattoos, and…everything else.

  “Keep your eyes up here, Grace.”

  Be a lady. Don’t embarrass yourself further by drooling over what’s hanging between his legs, Grace.

  Mom’s voice works into my thoughts, and I shudder, but it doesn’t stop me from looking.

  It can’t.

  Holy hell.

  His growing erection does not disappoint. I shift to try to dissipate some of the tension building between us.

  He clears his throat, and I look up at him. A knowing grin tilts the corner of his lips.

  Shit. How long was I staring at him?

  He wobbles slightly, and his eyes drift closed.

  I’m losing him. I rip the bandage off his arm in one smooth motion.

  His eyes fly open, and he winces slightly but doesn’t put up the same fuss he did with his side.

  Maybe he’s trying to avoid any further comments about his manliness, even though the evidence of it sits right at eye level.

  I gently pat dry the wound on his side to a litany of curses coming from him.

  “Jesus. Fuck.”

  I give him a hard look, and he bites his lip and grinds his teeth together.

  “For such a big, tough pirate, you sure are a baby about this.”

  “You try being stabbed.”

  I snort. “You weren’t even stabbed. This is just a graze. You were sliced at best.”

  I place the last piece of tape and press it tightly against his warm, damp skin.

  He hisses and steps back slightly.

  It only puts a few more inches between us but it’s enough to give me an even better view of his dick, which is now at full attention. His eyes drift down, then he quickly jerks his head up and catches my gaze.

  The corner of his mouth twitches.

  “Always nice to know that wasn’t permanently damaged.”

  “Clearly not.” The words come out a little wispier than I’d like. More breathy. Needy. Totally wrong and inappropriate right now.

  “What do you expect? A beautiful woman has her hands all over me.”

  Beautiful?

  Men have called me beautiful and offered me compliments before. Mostly as a way to try to get in my pants. Yet, even though Warwick is very naked and very hard right now, I don’t think that’s why he said it.

  The drugs have loosened his lips and removed any reservations or anything holding him back from speaking the truth. He feels this pull as much as I do. He wants this too, as wrong as it might be, as crazy as it truly is.

  Until only hours ago, I was his captive. He was the big, bad pirate who threw me over his shoulder like something out of an old romance novel and carried me away to my fate.

  But not anymore. Now, I’m here because I chose to be, because I couldn’t walk away knowing what that would mean for him and not knowing what would happen with the drugs and the Marconis.

  I rise to my feet slowly and crowd into his space.

  Jesus, what are you doing, Grace?

  Making really bad decisions.

  Before I can give myself any more time to think about how what I’m doing will change everything, I lean in and press my lips to his.

  His good arm comes up and wraps around my waist. He tugs me against him with a grunt into my mouth. That had to hurt but it doesn’t seem to stop him from claiming me with his lips and tongue.

  He kisses me hard, demanding my compliance. I give it right back. All the pent-up aggression that’s been building between us unravels. All the heat smoldering there finally sparks.

  The heat grows and builds until a fire rages between his naked body and my clothed one. That damn familiar earthy, cool water scent of his swirls around me and invades every breath I take. The beard that’s been steadily growing since he took me abrades my soft skin.

  God, this is so wrong and so damn right.

  This has to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever done in my life. Yet, my heart races, and I feel more alive than I ever have, in the arms of the man who could have killed me.

  He jerks away, releases me, and shakes his head. His free hand goes back through his wet hair. “What the fuck am I doing?”

  Warwick wavers on his feet slightly like he’s about to topple over, and I grab him and spin him around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Lie down.”

  I’m going to try not to take that “what the fuck am I doing” personally. He wasn’t saying that because it was me. It was about the situation. Right? The fact that he just had stitches and narcotics and that his life is in danger with the mob. The fact that I was his hostage…

  Shit. When did I become that girl—the one who kisses the bad boy and then wonders why he rejects her?

  He grimaces and crawls backward until his head hits the pillow. A relaxed sigh escapes his lips, the ones that just moments ago were pressed against mine. The ones that tasted dark and forbidden.

  His eyes drift closed. “Fuck.”

  The word echoes out into the silence of the room, and I just sit on the edge of the bed an
d stare at him until his chest rises and falls slowly and rhythmically.

  He’s asleep.

  He’s also very naked.

  And I shouldn’t be staring at him.

  I grab the covers and pull them up over him with shaking hands, then kick off my shoes and look down at myself.

  I need a shower too.

  The clothes I changed into at the hotel are covered in blood, but at least mine from earlier are clean now and sitting on Warwick’s desk. They must have a washing machine and dryer somewhere. Maybe Preacher washed them while we were gone.

  I grab the pile and take it with me into the bathroom. I crank the water on as hot as it will go, strip while it heats, and climb in.

  The hot spray is so damn welcome.

  What a last few days.

  I’m supposed to be leaving Milwaukee tomorrow and be on my way back home to try to figure out the mess Dad turned our business into. I need to attempt to sort out the books and also keep Mom calm and under control. She has no idea how bad things are, just that I needed to make sure this trip happened. And now, on top of all that shit already festering, I need to file the paperwork on the “lost” cargo and hope it doesn’t cause more problems for us. With my luck, it will.

  But instead of getting ready to go home, I’m here with Warwick and these guys trying to help them after they robbed me and kidnapped me.

  I shampoo my hair and soap my body quickly, letting the scalding water rinse away the remnants of the evening. But it can’t erase the feeling of Warwick’s arms wrapped around me or his hard body pressed against mine.

  How did I end up here?

  It all happened so fast.

  Is this how those hostages at the bank in Stockholm felt? Did they realize how strange and wrong it was to not want to see their captors in prison or worse?

  Because I do know how insane it is…and that doesn’t change a damn thing.

  I step from the shower and dry off with the only other towel in the bathroom. The clean clothes feel heavenly against my skin. A shower can do wonders. I slowly pull the door open, wincing at the squeaky hinges.

  Warwick hasn’t moved an inch. He’s out cold, and I yawn. I’m finally starting to feel the effects of the day. The adrenaline that’s been rushing through my system is dissipating, and I’m crashing hard.

  The one place to collapse has been claimed already.

  We haven’t slept in the same bed together during my time here, but we’re short on options, and I’m low on caring about how absurd this all is.

  Fuck it.

  I climb into bed next to Warwick and pull the covers up over me.

  He mumbles something but doesn’t move, and I relax back as much as possible knowing I have a very naked, very handsome, very dangerous pirate sleeping next to me tonight.

  And that he’s more dangerous than ever because of how much I loved his mouth and hands on me.

  19

  War

  The clank of the dock door opening jerks me awake. Pain shoots through my body.

  “Dammit.”

  The sting in my side and my arm coupled with a soft sigh from beside me sends the entire night rushing back in a hazy fog of broken memories.

  Hopping the fence.

  The ship.

  The security guard.

  The knife.

  Running.

  Falling.

  Bleeding.

  Grace…

  My lips tingle, and my cock stirs at the memory of her kiss last night.

  Despite being drugged up and in a fuckload of pain, the feeling of her lips pressed against mine and her body in my arms is crystal clear.

  Shit. What the hell was I thinking letting her kiss me? Kissing her back like that?

  That’s twice now I’ve let passion overpower reason, and that can’t happen if I want to keep all of us alive.

  I suck in a deep breath and glance to my left. Her soft, wavy red hair splays across the pillow like a golden amber halo. Her soft pink lips stand out against the paleness of her delicate skin, slightly parted with soft breaths puffing out slowly.

  My cock hardens further and brushes against the sheet.

  Shit. I’m naked.

  The memory of the kiss might be vivid, but what happened after that is a narcotics-induced cloud of darkness.

  We didn’t. Did we?

  I lift back the covers and release a sigh of relief to find her fully clothed.

  It appears I’ve left her virtue intact.

  I could’ve said or done anything to her last night. I was such a fucking mess.

  Please, God, don’t let me have done or said anything stupid.

  The situation is bad enough as it is. We missed our first and second deadlines with Arturo, and we’re missing half the drugs. There’s no way we can deliver a full shipment today. I don’t see how it could possibly be any worse right now.

  I push myself up with my good arm and try to bite back the groan so I don’t wake her.

  Things are worse, because that hurts like a motherfucker. I should just be happy it was a glancing slice and not a full, penetrating stab.

  The only time I’ve been stabbed, it was a mess. Drainage tubes, infections…it was the stuff of nightmares, and I never want to go through that again. And hopefully, I won’t have to. Rion will check it today, and if he says I’m good, then I’m good. I trust him with my life.

  I gingerly lift up the sheet and shift my way to the edge of the bed. With a grunt and some major effort, I push myself to my feet. A glance back at her assures me she’s still asleep.

  The dresser across the room holding my clothing looks miles away, but I shuffle over, grab some clothes, and slip out of the room without waking her.

  “Jesus, man, do you have to subject us to that this early in the morning?” Cutter leans against the jamb of the kitchen door watching me slowly make my way down the stairs. Milo sits at his feet, tongue lolling to the side while he watches me descend.

  “Go to Hell.”

  He shoves off the jamb and meets me at the bottom of the stairs. Milo whines and stares up at me.

  “Sorry, boy, no bending down to pet you this morning.” I toss my head back toward my room. “Grace is asleep. I didn’t want to wake her up.”

  Any hint of humor on Cutter’s face dissipates in an instant, and even though I can’t see his eyes behind the aviator glasses, the glower is visible everywhere else—the set of his jaw, his hard stance, the white knuckles on his clenched fists.

  I point a finger at him and make my way over to the table in the center of the warehouse. “Don’t say a word. It’s not what you think. Nothing happened. She patched me up again after I showered, and then we went to sleep. End of story.”

  “Well, well, well, Lazarus rises from the grave.” Preacher comes strolling in from the back hallway and eyes me up and down.

  I set my clothes on the table and grab my boxer briefs. I bend down to step into them and bite back a curse.

  No weakness.

  Gritting my teeth helps me get through pulling them up, and I do the same with my pants.

  Preacher reaches us at the table and eyes me up and down. “How are you feeling this morning?”

  I shrug. “As good as could be expected, I guess.”

  “Let me check these. Rion should be back soon and will want to look too.” He reaches down to my side and rips off the bandage and tape holding it in place.

  “Ouch. Shit, man, could you be a little more delicate?”

  His eyes move up to my room. “What, like her?”

  I glower at him, and he chuckles.

  Asshole.

  He pushes and pokes at the wound a little. “That hurt?”

  “Of course, it fucking hurts. I got stabbed.”

  “You got grazed. Don’t be a baby.”

  Why is everyone on my case about this? Bunch of jerks.

  Preacher rises. “It looks pretty good.”

  The box of medical supplies still sits on the chair where he left
it last night. He grabs an orange bottle, pops it open, shakes out a pill, and hands it to me. “Antibiotic.”

  He grabs another bottle and turns to me. “Pain medication.”

  I shake my head. “No narcotics. I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  Absolutely.

  I nod. “I need to be clear-headed today. We need to come up with a plan.”

  He grabs another bottle shakes out four pills. “That’s going to hurt for a few days. You’re going to want to at least take something to help with the swelling and inflammation. And like I said, if you notice anything, you let Rion or me know.”

  Cutter hands me the cup in his hand, and I down the pills.

  “Fuck!” I sputter and gasp as scalding hot coffee burns my throat. “Jesus, man, you could’ve warned me.”

  He chuckles. “What fun would that have been?”

  Preacher smirks and reaches for my arm. “Let me check your arm, too.” He rips off that bandage with zero finesse.

  I smack at his hand, and he laughs.

  “Where’s Rion?” I look to the open dock door and slip where The Destiny sits.

  “He ran out for some supplies and just got back. He’s unloading them.”

  That means I slept through the door opening the first time when he left.

  Jesus, I was really out of it.

  “Arm looks good.” Preacher grabs the gauze pads and tape and sets them on the table. “I’ll let Rion take a look, then we can wrap you back up.”

  Probably with the same gentle touch he’s already shown me.

  Can’t wait.

  “Well, look who finally decided to join us.” Rion jumps from The Destiny and strolls toward us with the box tucked under his arm. “You look like shit, man.”

  I grunt and grab my T-shirt from the table. “Can you just check these stitches so I can get dressed?”

  He grins, sets down the box on the table, and circles it to stand in front of me. He leans down to look at the wound on my side and then lifts my arm to check that one. “They look good. Preacher did an excellent job. I’m sure he already warned you to let us know if you see any infection or aren’t feeling well?”

  “Of course, he did.” I pull my arm away from him and nod toward the bandages on the table. E steps out from the kitchen with a mug in one hand and a sandwich in another. I wave him over. I hadn’t even realized he was back, but there’s really no point in having him sit on the crew anymore anyway. “Now, can we get on with this so we can talk about a plan?”